


Sees Unseen

by Matrya



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Canon, Blindness, Canon Relationship, F/M, Gen, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matrya/pseuds/Matrya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She made the choice; she left in a helicopter. Years down the road, the consequences still exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Threnodies of Starlings (Songs Written for A Mynah)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy is blind, to this and other things.

They have no phone. They only collect the post twice a month and the letters are always short and vapid. Dawn tells her university is good, Xander tells her marriage is good, Giles tells her England is good, Willow tells her magic is good.

She made the choice; she left in a helicopter without words or thoughts and just the idea of being gone and not having to worry about her mom or Glory or what to do.

She wonders, sometimes, what they would say if they saw her again.

There is no SPF in the wilderness. She has not seen a mirror in years. He calls her beautiful when she cradles him in strong, lean thighs.

Riley is a better liar than people think, though.

A hag she may be. She finds herself not caring, jotting off a letter on paper, the Biro catching and pooling, smearing wetly on her knuckles, as old ink in poor climates is wont toward.

The letters are not vapid, yet they do not resonate with meaning, love, or depth. They are as flat as Belarus and drier than Egypt.

She does not tell of Riley, of the birds—that she wakes to every morning—or the warmth of the sun through their bedroom windows. She fails to tell of paradise or the way a shift of wind can make it a different world.

She feels the wild in her bones as she retains civility in print. The loops and lines of the letters feel foreign, as if someone other than her controls her hand. She wonders how the eye would catch the letters, if they are even legible to anyone but her discerning fingers.

As she folds it, the paper feels like sand under her digits. This climate is bad to the paper; too hot and damp. It remains a great meal for things that she cannot feel. She will send out a half order for more paper with the post.

The starlings sing threnodies from outside of the house.

Buffy does not miss Sunnydale. She does not miss the words 'destiny', 'fate' or 'Slayer' and she is perfectly happy to play house miles off the nearest outpost.

She can hear the rumble of the Jeep and feel the thrum of it in the bare planks under her feet. A grin pulls at her mouth as she puts the last letter in the envelope. She scrawls 'Dawn' in the corner where the stamp will cover and sets it in the basket with the others.

The screen-and-wood door is always open and she hurries out of it.

Her face changes, then. Something is different.

"Buffy," greets a voice like tea and tweed.

She looks downward, so he will not know she cannot meet his eyes. "Giles?"

Riley offers her his hand but no words, the strong grip of callous and talc more like prayer than texture.

She can taste the bate of Giles' breath as Riley pulls her forward.

"Mr. Giles has news, Buffy," Riley offers and suddenly, though it never has before, the tone in his voice makes her feel cosseted.

He lifts her hand and rests it against the worn plane of her Watcher's face.

She runs her thumb over thin lips and feels the fluid movement as he reaches to remove his glasses. The skin around his eyes feels like cheap cotton sheets left in the wash and the line of his hair is high on his head as the man who takes their supply orders. The planes of his cheeks are as sandpaper and his forehead like the salty clay they find in the shallow depths.

As her fingers trail down his nose, she grins. She misses his face, can no longer bring the picture of it forward in her mind. She, however, is not as one of the mynah and will not bewail this. "It's good to see your face," she says.

He says, after long moments of the way one's mind will catch on that concept, "And yours."

"Is it Dawn?" she asks of his news. There is terror in that thought.

"Dawn is fine." He is tense and it makes the hair on the back of her neck come to attention. The tightness of the muscle under her fingers, through his flesh and her own, is the tension of a low-tone catgut string. Blood rushes through him at double speed. "Your father is dead."

There is the briefest flash of remorse and little else. "What happened?" she asks because it feels like the right words. How is she to mourn a man whom did not care for her? whom she has not seen since she was little more than a child?

As he answers her, a wall flattens her front. Sensations flit through the mind, as mockingbirds are wont to do. His face is far more disremembered than that of Giles, yet she can see the way he would lift her onto his shoulders as they browsed the aisles of Toys Я Us. She remembers her nightmare and the honesty it lacked, the lies propagated by a broken little boy.

She remembers him sitting on the steps of a suburban Los Angeles house as his wife and children pulled north.

She has not thought of Hank Summers in years; longer since she has spoken to him and again since she has seen him.

Giles filled the role beautifully; yet she feels guilt and disconsolation worm through her blood like a parasite. Why has she not sent him even one letter in her years since Sunnydale?

There is reason and logic, which she thrusts aside in favor of self-condemnation.

"Buffy?" asks Riley in a tone not unlike the one he had favored for the months after they had learned of her mother.

She snaps to with a blink, the facing of her head in his direction. She realizes the futility of it; his face will not come into view anymore than Giles' or the birds perched in the low trees only meters away. "What?"

The awkward pat of the footsteps gives him away before his hand ever splays across the low dip of her back, before his lips brush against her ear and in that quiet, low, mesmerizing drawl he asks a question. She too quickly listens to the way his voice raises and drops to hear a word he says.

She loves the sound of it and immediate calm starts to infringe the lugubrious thoughts. "I'm fine," she mutters. Her hands slide from the strong, downy warmth of Giles' arm. She wonders when she lost track of him and then laughs inwardly as her conscience answers, 'About six years ago.'

After a length, she sighs. "How's Dawn?"

"She's taking it rather well." He sounds gracious for the chance to concentrate on something from his own hemisphere.

"Good." She cannot feel the word on her lips and wonders if she has actually spoken

He rests a hand on her shoulder unfamiliarly. "Yes. She's back in Princeton. She would've liked to come, but she has her courses."

She feels proud as she smiles. "She's doing good?"

"She is," he replies with as much pride hanging on his voice as she feels. "She hopes you'll visit during the summer. I told her--"

"Okay," she agrees. A visit could do her well, the way cities live. The thrum, the beat and rhythm, the way the air tastes like people and smells like tar. "How long is it until the summer?"

The surprise registers in his voice until it is a pitch unto its own. "Her holiday starts in three weeks, actually. She'll spend the months in London."

Buffy nods. She thinks this, now, is a sign. "When are you going back?"

"I have a flight the day after tomorrow, leaving late in the afternoon," he offers her with tones and layers to his voice that sound both uncertain and absolute; if she asked him to stay longer, he would.

"Good, we'll get a chance to talk, then," she offers, reaching for his hand and finding his hip instead.

His throat clears, and the rough talc texture of Riley's hand puts her hand on Giles' wrist.

"Thanks," she mutters sheepishly. She is too used to Riley. Other people are a challenge. She grins at Giles. "Do you have a room somewhere?" she asks, starting to lead him to the house.

"Oh, no, Riley picked me up directly from the airport. He'll take me back out tonight."

She shakes her head because he seems to be resisting her lead. "We want to get inside before it starts to rain." She feels his pulse, strong and even, and the miniscule shift of muscle under skin as his head tilts to look up at the sky. "You'll stay for dinner, though, right?" she asks as dirt turns into soft wool. She wipes her feet and continues to bare planks of wood.

His voice catches. "Of course, Buffy. Dinner would be lovely."

The door closes behind him and the familiar vibration of Riley's footsteps carries through the floor.

"It's after six, already." Riley wonders, "Did you start anything?"

The house smells of fish and citrus and pepper. "There's a pan of fish in the fridge." She walks over, feels the way Giles moves out of her way and smiles. "It just needs to go in the oven." She pulls it out, adjusting the weight of glass and fish in her hands, before setting it on the counter, pulling away the cover.

She grins. "No flies got to it."

He looks over her shoulder, fingers pressing into her sides. "Nope. Here, let me get this in..." he lifts it up, over her, and his weight moves away from her back. "Did you want salad?"

"I can make it," she reminds, hand on the door of the fridge.

His hands are back, guiding her away from the fridge. "So can I. You should catch up with Mr. Giles, talk about you visiting." His fingers brush skin, her flesh covering in goose pimples.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Yes, mom." She turns, pressing a hand to either side of his face. "Are you coming with me?"

"No." He smiles. "You'll be fine."

Her expression does not match. "Will you be?"

His expression becomes the same, face falling into frowns, furrows around his mouth. "Yes, Buffy. Go talk to Mr. Giles while I make dinner."

His lips kiss the palm of her hand as he turns away and she bites her lip, moving back out of the kitchen and toward Giles. "Tell me about London?"


	2. Interlude: No Man Can Help You (Don't Die a Father's Death)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude. Giles is presumptuous. Riley has none of it.

The roads are uneven, ruts and bumps, slick with mud. Giles clutches the door. "What happened?"

Riley's eyes are off the dirt path too long for Giles' comfort. "What? To Buffy?"

"Yes," he offers in return, the passing of flora outside his window too quick and close for his ease. "Slayers have amazing eyesight. One suffering from macular degeneration is...unheard of."

"Well, about a year after we left Sunnydale, we were hunting a group of Phi-Suk who'd been taking hearts throughout Asia." He takes a sharp turn, the tires sliding and righting. "We found them in Pyongyang, went in for search and destroy, but they put up a hell of a fight. Their sorceress started throwing off hexes left and right. Preston took off her head, but the unit suffered innumerable casualties. And this was considered a mission important enough to put dozens on." He looks over again, as if to punctuate his point. "Right?"

Giles nods. "Understood."

"Well, we took them out, every damn one. Didn't think anything of it, though. Until six months later, when everyone had gone back to their units, transferred or been discharged. Nearly all of us had something wrong. Lost a limb, deaf, mute, blind..." He turns his eyes back to the road as they come to a turn. "Dead. Whatever. Realized it was all of us from that mission."

"Right. And, you escaped unharmed?"

"Comparatively. The left leg is carbonized steel below the knee. Hurt during the mission, but by a month later it was rotting off the bone. They shipped me to the District and amputated. They discharged me. Buffy stayed in, but noticed her eyes were dim. Got correctives, but the eyes got worse. Couldn't make out light from dark after six months. Honorable discharges, both of us, with line-of-duty commendations and the whole thing."

There is three miles of silence before Giles asks, "Have you tried to...?"

Riley looks over. "Fix her? Yeah. Tried every mystical source, then Lasik, acupuncture... About thirty months ago, we got her new eyes, corneas, whatever. Keratoplasty. Worked great at first, started to go bad pretty quick, though."

"When you visited," Giles mutters, the realization dawning on him.

"Yeah. She had two weeks, and we saw everything she wanted. After we left Dawn in Princeton, we saw Lion King on Broadway, caught a red eye to LA, visited with Angel, rented a car and drove to Sunnydale." He takes a sharp right past a sign Giles cannot read. "Had lunch with the gang that was still there, drove up to Stockton to see Faith and caught a flight to see you. That was just a day. Anything she wanted to see, we went after."

Giles nods. "You take good care of her, then?"

Riley laughs as lights begin to come in through the blurring rain. "Yeah, right. If she'd let me, I would. Buffy is Buffy, though. She was...more willing to be taken care of at first. We were still living in DC at the time, while I was doing rehab." He blows out a breath. "Careful with her, in the city. She's not great at crowds, doesn't like to be around more than three or four people. If she can't keep track of everyone, she gets tense. She'll know if you aren't looking at her when you talk to her.

"She likes to touch. In one-on-one conversation, she'll touch your face so she can see your expression. Uhm..." He takes a hand off the wheel, gesturing. "Don't announce yourself when you enter a room, drives her crazy. My mom did that when we stayed there. Hmm. Try to keep aware of her hands. She'll reach out for an arm or something when she's talking and...sometimes she misses."

"As she did outside of the house?" Giles wonders as the outpost comes into view.

Riley grins. "One of the less embarrassing examples."

"Ah."

"Yeah. Don't treat her like a kid. She can cook, she can clean, she can go to bed and wake up and shower. Like I said, and I'm reiterating, she likes to touch. She likes to be touched. Hand on her shoulder, back, that sort of thing. Not while driving, though. She's very skittish about both hands on the wheel."

"Understandable."

Nodding, Riley pulls up to a small thatch-roof house with a hand-painted sign declaring, 'Temporary Boarding'. "And here you are, Mr. Giles. The best hotel on the island; I held up a room for you."

Giles nods, opening the door of the jeep. "Well, thank you for the lift, Riley."

"You want any help with your bag?" Riley asks, leaning across the seat.

"I think I can manage it." Giles pulls his suitcase from the foot well of the passenger seat, glancing back in at Riley. "I'll see you in the morning, yes?"

Another nod and Riley says, "Yeah. Buffy and I will pick you up at ten."

Looking at the cyan display clock on the dash, Giles says, "Perhaps make that eleven?"

"Yes, sir," Riley agrees with a good-natured smile. "Have a good night."

"And you, Riley," is the answer, punctuated by the closing of a door.


	3. Like Gunfire (Flinch on a Trigger)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London is a blast: a shot, the shell skewing back and Buffy charging full bore ahead. (London, back to front)

The airport is loud and thrumming like a hummingbird's wing beats. Buffy feels _alive_.  


* * *

  
She wakes up feeling refreshed for the first time in years. There is a thrill in her blood and a hunger for more of the same.  
Then, there is Giles, ready to take her to her flight and let her go once again.  
Of course, she tells herself, he never had a choice in the matter before. Now, he is accustomed to her being gone.  


* * *

  
She slays her first vampire in over two years at Charring Cross at eleven on a Tuesday night.  
The adrenaline rush keeps her up for three days and she cannot imagine going another two years without it.  


* * *

  
Dawn stares at her, like to see if she really cannot make light from dark. It makes her feel guilty, but she lets Dawn help her prepare a dinner salad.  
In the end, she only cuts lettuce with a plastic knife.  
The smile in Dawn's voice keeps her from regretting her sister's carefulness.  


* * *

  
Giles takes her to the Headquarters for the Reformed Council. It seems Giles leads them all, and that it is more a group of trained civilians than anyone powered to do so.  
Faith is there, though, along with a few more Slayers.  
The implication turns Buffy's stomach like sour milk.  


* * *

  
The motion, the movement, the constant twirl-whirl-activity of Heathrow tosses her around like Alice in a glass bottle, abused by a sea of her own tears.  
There is too much around her and the sensory overload is ratcheted up to ten on her remaining senses.  
She huddles into herself because the airport is loud and thrumming like a hummingbird's wing beats. 


	4. Trust Light (Knowledge of Sunny California)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude. This is what Buffy sees when her eyes are closed.

Her eyes (not her eyes, but things which once were that live on in her mind in blurry watercolours) lie to her.

They are lies she knows (has known) are lies and yet, she abides them anyhow.

There is the bright, vivid image of Dawn, standing in her room as her mother tells her to take the younger sister to the movie she and Riley have planned to take in.

She wonders if this is the moment Dawn began to exist, the first time she met her, because everything before it is fuzzy and everything after is like everyday.

She sees Willow and Xander and Giles at the library, all different times and different spots.

Willow, clutching a tranquiliser gun and sitting on the floor, singing to the beast in the cage a few feet away.

Xander spurning her spell-induced advances.

Giles, before she hit him, taking her destiny into his own hands.

When her eyes are closed (which is always, technically, but physically because it helps her to concentrate), she sees Angel, back lit by sirens and pathos, walking out of her life again and for the last time. She tries not to remember those later visits, which make her heart ache and give her mouth the taste of peanut butter.

Riley is there at the airport, even if she expected him to meet her at the little plane on the island. Her hand immediately seeks his arm, finds the uncomfortable comfort of those faint, puckered scars.

When she closes her eyes that is what she sees of him. Meaty forehead over bloody mouth and his arm, his face at being caught.

He winces, now, as her fingers dig into puckered skin.

**Author's Note:**

> **Memo:** I don't check comments or kudos, but feel free to yell at me on [tumblr](http://matrya.tumblr.com) or [check out](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Matrya) my other writing!


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